Breakable

I silenced the voice in my head telling me that none of this was enough.

Jacqueline appeared to be having second thoughts, too – she didn’t email Landon or text me all week. She didn’t come into Starbucks, and she only looked back at me during class a couple of times. On Friday, her ex approached her at the end of class. He smiled down at her, one hand in his pocket, confident in his charm.

I couldn’t see her face as they spoke, though her posture seemed taut. Wanting to wipe that smug smile right off his face, I left the classroom before I did or said something stupid.

Friday afternoon, I got an email from Ralph Watts, the assistant chief of campus police. Watts was responsible for university-sponsored self-defence lessons the department offered a couple of times every semester. After I’d seen the flyer on our bulletin board last fall and asked him about it, he sent me to a training and certification programme. I’d volunteered to assist twice now – donning padding and consenting to be punched and kicked by female students, faculty and staff who sacrifice three Saturday mornings to learn basic self-protection.

Lucas,

Sgt. Netterson was supposed to assist the next self-defence class, but she snapped her collarbone in some wall-climbing mishap last night. I know it’s short notice, but if you can make it – I need you, starting tomorrow morning. Plus two more sessions after Thanksgiving break, if you can do those. If you can only do tomorrow, that’d still be a huge help. Let me know asap.

Thanks,

R. Watts

For once, I didn’t have a ten-to-three-o’clock Saturday shift scheduled at Starbucks. I wrote Watts back and told him yes, for all three Saturdays.

I also got an email from Jacqueline. Nothing flirtatious – just her research paper for Heller, which I’d promised to go over before she submitted it.

I couldn’t be displeased when I didn’t want her to flirt with Landon … Right? I emailed her back, telling her I’d look it over and have it to her by Sunday.

Minutes later, Lucas got a text from her: Did I do something wrong?

I paced the apartment before replying that I’d just been busy and added a casual, What’s up? So indifferent, when I felt anything but indifference where this girl was concerned. Instead of seeming slighted, she replied with curiosity about the charcoals I’d said I was going to do of her sketches. I told her I’d done one and wanted her to see it. She replied that she’d like that.

So I told her I was out and would talk to her later.

‘Goddammit,’ I muttered, tossing my phone on the counter and pacing to the sofa. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, but there was no blotting out the memory of her beautiful surrender in my arms a week ago. She trusts me. There was no triumph in that knowledge because I was giving her the embodiment of mixed signals – not to mention giving them as two different people.

‘I am a lying ass**le,’ I told Francis, who yawned.

Standing in a chilly activities-building classroom at nine a.m. on a Saturday morning, the last thing I expected to see was Jacqueline Wallace. While Sergeant Don Ellsworth directed our twelve attendees to sign in and Watts handed out packets, I was lacing my low-rise taekwondo shoes and setting up the mats. I slowed when I recognized Jacqueline’s redheaded friend come through the door and went immobile when Jacqueline entered right behind her.

I’d considered suggesting the course to her, but didn’t think she was ready yet – especially if she hadn’t told anyone else what happened that night. If she attended too soon and felt intimidated or overwhelmed, she might not come back.

But she must have told her friend, who didn’t move further than a foot away from her, stroking a reassuring hand over her shoulder blade or guiding her firmly by the elbow when she looked ready to bolt out the door. Jacqueline was absolutely ready to run when she looked up and saw me flanking Lieutenant Watts. Her eyes tearing from me to the packet she gripped in her white-knuckled hands, she said something to her friend under her breath. One hand on her leg, her friend murmured something back.

Watts began his anxiety-dispelling opening speech, where he introduced himself, and then I bench-press three hundred pounds Ellsworth and me in his usual way: ‘This feeble-looking guy to my left is Sergeant Don, and the ugly one is Lucas, one of our parking enforcement officers.’ As everyone snickered, he praised them for giving up a Saturday morning to attend the session and then gave an outline of the three-week programme.

After fundamental principles were discussed, we moved to choreographed demonstrations of attacks and blocks, so the women could get an idea of the moves we would be teaching them. In slow motion, Ellsworth performed the hits and I defended as Watts detailed weak spots of the attacker – some obvious, like the groin, some not, like the middle of the forearm. He stressed the goal of the attacked: escape.

Everyone broke into pairs to practise individual moves, while the three of us circulated to make sure they were executed correctly. Not wanting to stress her out further, I let Ellsworth take Jacqueline’s side of the room, but her navy yoga pants and white T-shirt were continually in my peripheral vision. I watched for signs of distress all too common in survivor attendees. I knew which scenario would trigger memories of her particular assault, and I dreaded its approach.

Thanks to her friend, whose name was Erin, she did well with the hand strikes, yelling, No! with each one, as instructed, and grinning when she nailed the hammer strike block.

We finally came to the last defence move of the day. I couldn’t assess her reaction while we demonstrated it, but once the group broke into pairs again, her stiff posture, wide eyes and the shallow rise and fall of her chest were clear enough panic indicators. Erin held her hand as they spoke in low tones, heads together. Jacqueline shook her head but didn’t release her death grip on her friend’s hand. More murmuring ensued, and then they moved to the mat.